


One Time, No Regrets, Maybe

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Related, Fic, First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your basic procrastinatory PWP. Set during 3.08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Time, No Regrets, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> (If you want more context, [here's my recap/picspam of the relevant scene from 3.08](http://china-shop.livejournal.com/717759.html).)

Clinton looked sideways at Neal. Through the haze of too much whisky and the lateness of the hour, with that half-smile on his face and his guard down, he looked even more attractive than usual. Bordering on irresistible, even to Clinton, who'd never had a thing for guys before. Clinton quashed that thought and tried to recapture the thread of the conversation. "I guess I do have it pretty good, don't I?"

"Yeah," said Neal. "Guess we both do." His knee bumped Clinton's and stayed there, pressing lightly, underlining his next question. "You know what would make it even better?"

There was no point pretending to misunderstand. Apparently they were both affected by the whisky and shared confidences. Either that or Clinton was as transparent as glass.

"I don't know," said Clinton slowly. His pulse thudded at the base of his throat, making the words difficult to say. "I've never done it with a guy before."

"So we take it one step at a time." The pressure of Neal's knee increased. "How about a kiss? Just one kiss."

Clinton swallowed and nodded, agreeing despite himself, despite reservations and commonsense.

Neal's lips curved. His tongue came out to wet them, and Clinton's mouth went dry at the sight. It had to be the alcohol. The cocoon of intimacy. And this spark that had been flickering between them all evening, ever since Clinton had answered the door. The same spark that was flaring to life now, starting a fire in his belly.

"Any time you want to stop, you say the word," murmured Neal, his voice smooth and liquid. He put his hand on Clinton's bare arm, loose, casual, hot, and leaned in.

Clinton mirrored him, feeling a swoop of vertigo. Up close, Neal was imperfect: he had stubble coming through, a stray eyelash on his cheek, faint shadows under his eyes. It was reassuring in a weird way, but even so, when Clinton was a few inches from Neal's lips, he hesitated. "Uh, wait. What's the word?"

Neal's eyes were dark, his eyelids heavy. "'Stop'," he said, faintly humorous. "The word is 'stop.'" He closed those last few inches and pressed his lips to Clinton's.

Neal's mouth was warm and soft, his lips almost dry. It was barely a kiss at all, but Clinton gave an involuntary grunt in the back of his throat, which made him flush with embarrassment, and he parted his lips to distract Neal from the inelegance of it. Neal, opportunistic as ever, immediately took advantage. He slid his tongue against Clinton's own, teasing his lips, and oh Good Lord, sweeping any last shreds of hesitation aside. Clinton's head swam with whisky and desire, and his breath came hard and fast. He surged forward, wanting more, and by unspoken agreement, they shoved the bar stools aside and stood, their bodies pressed up against each other, caught in an embrace, turned on and still kissing.

Clinton tore his mouth away. "Wait," he said hoarsely. "Stop."

Neal stiffened and obediently pulled back a few inches, but his disappointment was obvious. "Change of heart?"

"No," said Clinton. "Maybe. I just—what are we doing? What is this?"

It was a genuine question, and Neal took it as such. He dropped his hands from Clinton's shoulder and waist, and stepped back. "I was thinking—as much as I was thinking at all—a one-night stand between friends."

"Friends?" Clinton tried to get his head around that: being friends with Neal Caffrey. It was hard to think while he was so turned on.

"Aren't we?" Something flickered across Neal's face and was gone. His hands slipped into his pockets. He didn't move away, but he seemed suddenly distant.

"Of course," said Clinton, sorry to have questioned it. Wanting him close again. "So this is, what, friends with benefits?"

"That's up to you." Neal locked gazes with him. "I'm hoping."

"One time," said Clinton, just to be sure.

"Heat of the moment," said Neal. He pulled his tie free, folded it loosely and stuffed it in his pants pocket, and unfastened the top button of his shirt, all without looking away. His sleeves were already rolled up, and the flex of his forearms stole Clinton's attention. How in hell had he been oblivious all these years?

"No regrets," he said, as much to himself as to Neal. He crowded Neal up against the breakfast bar, and when their bodies collided again, it was as if the temperature in the room went up twenty degrees. He sagged against Neal, partly out of necessity, and sought his mouth again.

Neal wrapped his arms—those strong muscled arms—around him and hauled him closer, and Clinton threaded his fingers into Neal's hair and angled to deepen their kiss, messy and open now, not holding back. The slide of their tongues was urgent and addictive, and Neal wasn't shy with his teeth, either. He nipped at Clinton's lips, then his jaw, scraped lightly down the side of his neck. Their hips were lined up, their erections hard against each other, and combined with the attentions of Neal's mouth, every movement, every shift in pressure sent a tremor of excitement coursing through Clinton. It was impossible to think, impossible to do anything but seek release.

Too intense. It wasn't going to take long. A vague notion of a bed and horizontal nudity occurred to him, and just the thought was almost enough to bring him off. He screwed his eyes shut and focused on the present, on Neal's body in his arms, Neal nuzzling his neck, that wicked tongue drawing trails of fire across Clinton's skin. This wasn't the prelude to more involved physical acts; it was the end game in and of itself.

Neal's hips canted forward eagerly, and his body was so tense and hot, Clinton thought they might combust together. Unbidden, he pictured flames licking between them, melding them together. He fisted his hand in Neal's shirt and dragged the hem free so he could get his hands on Neal's skin. Neal's gasp and the smooth muscular stomach under Clinton's fingers were enough to decide the matter irrevocably. He brought Neal's mouth back to his and kissed him hard as he came—fully dressed, squirming against another man in his own kitchen. It was a long orgasm, shuddering through him, sweet and heavy as a drug. Neal said something, the words muffled against Clinton's mouth. He caught Clinton's wrist, drawing his hand to the front of Neal's pants. Clinton rubbed the hard shape of him willingly, and a few seconds later, Neal twisted his head to the side and groaned. Through the fabric of his pants, Clinton felt his cock jerk as he came.

Clinton put his arms around him and held him, trying to ignore the awkwardness that was rising up to replace subsiding need, and for a moment Neal leaned there and hugged him back, catching his breath. Then he straightened, gave Clinton a perfunctory kiss and reached for the remains of his whisky.

He passed Clinton his glass too, and Clinton took it but he didn't drink. Doubt was casting a shadow over the last ten minutes and, by extension, the whole evening. He studied the liquid in his glass and cleared his throat. "Was this why you came here tonight? Because you thought—"

"No," said Neal quickly. He turned to face Clinton, flushing slightly. "I mean, I might have hoped in the back of my mind, but no. I came because I needed to talk. A friend." He looked self-conscious, as if it were a weakness he didn't like to admit to. "And I thought maybe you did too."

"Yeah," said Clinton, relieved. He was still warm and relaxed from his orgasm, and he didn't want that undermined by feeling like Neal had deliberately got him drunk in order to seduce him.

"Regrets?" said Neal, his eyebrows raised.

Clinton shook his head, but before he could answer properly, his phone rang. It was Peter. "Hey. What's happening?"

Neal's phone rang a second later, and Clinton listened to Peter with one ear and Neal talking to Diana with the other. "I'm on my way," he told Peter and hung up just as Neal did the same. "Barrett Dunne."

"They kidnapped Jimmy," said Neal. He glanced down at his stained pants. "I need to go home and change."

"I don't think I should drive you." Clinton picked up the nearly empty whisky bottle to illustrate. "Sorry."

"No, I'm good." Neal called a taxi while Clinton rinsed out the whisky glasses and tried to will himself sober.

He needed to change into something cleaner and drier too, but first he walked Neal to the door. "Okay, well—"

"We're good?" said Neal. It sounded light and casual, but Clinton could see the uncertainty underneath.

"We're good." In fact Clinton was more than good. He felt great, and he was tempted to pull Neal close for one last kiss goodbye, before they had to forget this completely and go to work like nothing had happened. But Neal didn't give him an opening, so Clinton settled for saying, "See you at the office."

A car horn sounded outside.

"That'll be me." Neal draped his jacket over his arm and positioned it strategically to hide the front of his pants. He put his hand on the doorknob, and Clinton felt the moment slipping away. By tomorrow, the events of the evening would fall into the realm of fantasy and fiction. If he didn't do something to stop that now, he never would.

He put his hand on Neal's upper arm. "Hey. Do you maybe want to get a drink sometime. Do this again?"

Neal let out a long breath, and his shoulders shifted and eased. A gleam appeared in his eye. "All of this?"

Clinton kept his gaze steady. "Maybe take some of our clothes off next time."

"Some, but not all." Neal was definitely teasing him now, humor in the angle of his head and the tilt of his shoulders. "Is that what you're thinking?"

"I said 'maybe'," said Clinton, grinning at him. "You know me: I like to take it one step at a time." Heat was building between them again already. If it hadn't been for work—

"Well, maybe that sounds good," said Neal. The taxi horn blared again, and Neal moved forward and gave Clinton a quick, soft kiss. "See you soon, CJ."

"Yeah, see you." Clinton shut the door after him and stood there for a moment with his arm braced against the wood, letting his eyes fall shut. Friends with benefits was a complicated enough scenario when the other person wasn't a felon and a guy and you didn't work together. This was madness. But it was a madness that got Clinton's blood pumping, and hell, they weren't hurting anyone. There were no chain of command issues, and even if Clinton could theoretically pull rank, he had a feeling Neal would talk his way around that as easily as he always had.

He was drunk. He should think it through properly once he'd got his head together. In the meantime, he had to go to work and figure out how to rescue Jimmy. But he didn't feel lonely anymore; Isabelle was part of his past now, not a missing piece of his present, and any regrets Clinton might have been harboring had been erased by the residual satisfaction of scorching hot sex. Which might be on the menu again sometime soon. Maybe.

Clinton grinned to himself, shook his head and went to get cleaned up. The sooner they closed this case, the sooner the pressure would be off, and then maybe there'd be time for that drink.


End file.
